


Solstice

by Ann7121



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 10:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14999120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ann7121/pseuds/Ann7121
Summary: Derived from Wilfred Owen’s poem Futility.





	Solstice

The pain from his wounds, perversely, prompted him to action, reminding him of his obligations. He dragged himself over to the bodies. Looked at each of them. His people. To ensure they were really dead. Then he sat himself down by Villa on an impulse he couldn't really explain and picked up his hand. 

He did not know if he imagined the twitch, the tiny pulse of life, but he'd found himself dragging his companion - he did not feel he had the right to designate him' friend' - out from the darkness of the silo into the blaze of the sunlight. Carefully he straightened the limbs, positioned the face (frozen in an expression of such surprised disbelief that it was comic) so the rays fell directly on to it and waited. 

The sun glared down on them, impassive, indifferent. He remembered that it was once worshipped as a powerful God; dredged up a piece of arcane information that the longest day had been one of ritual and reverence. The summer solstice. That day. The defeat of darkness. 

He could hear the rustle of small insects about the business of staying alive, the warning call of a bird daring rivals to invade its territory; but no matter how hard he listened, he could hear not even the faintest suspiration; no murmur of blood snaking through veins and arteries.

Despite the fierce warmth he felt cold: his wounds pulling and aching, breath hard to fetch. Yet still he waited and dared to hope.

He must have lost consciousness then for a time, because when he came to, the golden, reddish light was slowly bleeding from the sky. A noise from his companion, a creaking moan forced from the throat, made him lean forward eagerly; but the face when he touched it was cold and hard as a stone. 

He hoped it would end soon. This longest day.

**Author's Note:**

> Derived from Wilfred Owen’s poem Futility.


End file.
